


Pentimenti

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: Forgiveness, Gen, POV Second Person, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky always hated "The Gift of the Magi."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pentimenti

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Snacky for looking it over. Takes place right after the end of Winter Soldier: Winter Kills.

It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.   
~Oscar Wilde

The night is quiet when Namor finishes telling you about Toro's death. The sirens have faded and even the church bells have stopped ringing. The snow is still making a half-assed effort, fluttering down silently and muffling everything. You think about Toro dying and none of you able to save him, the way Steve saved you. You'd trade places with him if you could. You don't deserve the second chance and he would have made the most of it.

"I suppose you'll continue to wallow," Namor says, "instead of girding your loins and facing him like a man." His mouth twists in a sneer. "You've picked an odd time to turn coward."

There was a time you'd have risen to the bait easily, let Namor spark you up and get your mouth going, but you're not that kid anymore and you haven't been for years. And also, this time, Namor's words are true.

"I have reasons," you say, and thankfully it doesn't sound sulky, the way you were afraid it might.

"Hmph." Namor sniffs disdainfully. "I'll leave you to it, then."

He takes off, and you're honestly only surprised that he stayed as long as he did.

You wonder if he's right. You think about what the girl, Kate, said. Maybe she was right, too. It's not that Steve won't forgive you--you know he already has. You know he believes it's not even necessary. You also know he's wrong on both counts.

You know you could go to his door right now and he'd welcome you with open arms, but you can't accept forgiveness, which is the only gift Steve has to give, because he can't grant you absolution, which is the one gift you need. It reminds you of that stupid story by O. Henry that you always hated, because you understood exactly why they did it, and you've always hated being needy.

Still, you think about it, spend Christmas alone with the television and a six-pack until you've got a plan that sounds as good drunk as it does sober. Possibly you've gotten that saying backwards, but then, you never were one to listen to good advice.

The day after Christmas, the subway is oddly empty but the streets are packed. You stay underground for a while, ride back and forth like a bum, the wet wool smell and animal warmth of the train familiar in ways the streets above aren't anymore. Finally, though, you make your way through the slush and the black ice to the art supply store you found in the phone book.

There are kids going in and out--they're probably college students but they all look young to you, even though you only look a few years older. You push your way in out of the cold, your body easing into the warmth of the store. It's bigger than you expected, aisles and aisles of crowded shelves. You wander them, a little stunned by the variety of _stuff_ available.

It had been easier to keep Steve in art supplies during the war--not because you'd known any better then what to get, even if there'd been any variety, but because Steve had been happy to have a pencil that wasn't worn down to a nub and paper that had only been printed on one side.

Now, you look at the shelves stocked with pencils and charcoals and inks and paper and have no idea where to start.

A pretty girl with a nametag spots you and you let yourself be helped instead of disappearing, even though your skin itches and you want to run away.

"Yeah," you say vaguely. "I have a friend who draws, but I don't know--" You gesture at the shelves. "He's always sketching on whatever paper that's lying around." You don't even know if that's true anymore, but it's such a fundamental part of Steve that you can't imagine it's changed, even now.

You end up with a sketchpad of recycled paper, a set of pencils, and a white plastic eraser that the girl swears works on anything. It doesn't seem like near enough and, at the same time, it feels like too much. You still haven't thanked him for saving you, or apologized for not thanking him, and as small as it is, this is the first drop in a very large bucket.

At the register, you start to panic--not that anyone here is able to tell--and say, "Hey, can you just have it shipped?"

"Um," the cashier glances over at a guy who is probably her boss.

He comes over and says, "Can I help you?"

You swallow down the rush of fear and shake your head. "Forget it. How much do I owe you?"

They wrap it all up for you and you carry it back to the apartment you've been renting. You put it on the kitchen table and stare at it for the next few days. It alternately mocks and rebukes you, because you still can't get up the nerve to get on the subway and take it to him. You don't buy a card. You don't know what to write in one.

You decide to mail it, actually stand in line at the post office for a few minutes before you leave. You don't want him to know you're there, but you want to see his face when he opens it.

"Kid, why don't you just ring the bell and talk to him?" Fury says. You let the silence answer for you, which is fine by Fury. He's used to having conversations where he's the only one who does the talking. "No, I guess that wouldn't be enough drama for you."

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly through your nose. "Just give me the code."

Fury heaves a weary sigh that's probably only half put-on, and gives you the security code for Steve's apartment.

Which is how you end up in Red Hook, freezing your ass off on a roof a block away from Steve's building, watching him through a pair of binoculars and waiting for him to leave. There's something comforting and familiar about watching and waiting, and for the first time in a while, you relax. You tell yourself it's only a little creepy, because this time, you're not going to shoot anybody.

You can tell Steve knows he's being watched. There's a twitch in his shoulders and he never stands at the window, but you don't think he makes you (or he does and he trusts you, even when he probably shouldn't). But even when he leaves, you can't make yourself go down there and leave the package, which is getting a little ragged around the edges from being carried around everywhere you go.

You spend three anxious days in the cold, waiting for the right moment, playing out various scenarios in your head, each more unlikely than the last--you leave the package on his doorstep and someone steals it before he ever sees it; you slip it into his mail slot and watch him open it, puzzled smile on his face; you ring the bell and he invites you in for a beer.

He leaves around noon, eyeing the grey sky warily and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. You watch him get smaller and smaller through the lenses of your binoculars, and then you scramble for the fire escape, the soles of your boots sliding a little against the wet metal.

You leave the package on his kitchen table. You find a pad of yellow sticky notes on the fridge, so you write, "Merry Christmas," on one and stick it to the package. You hesitate for a long moment and add, "Thank you." Then you reset the alarm and go back to your perch.

It's another couple of hours before he comes back. You've got a thermos full of coffee, and the sun peeks out for a little while, so it's not too bad. You've hunkered down through worse, for reasons that weren't near as important. Your anxiety is gone; everything is in Steve's hands now, and there's nothing that feels as good or as safe as that.

You watch him frown when he sees the package and then smile when he sees the note, watch him carefully slit open the brown paper it's wrapped in. Even through binoculars, you can see the way his face lights up when he sees what's inside.

He flips open the sketchpad, hunches over it for a moment or two, and then rips out a page. He comes to the window and slaps the piece of paper up against it.

"Thank you," it says, and beneath that, "Merry Christmas, Bucky."

You bow your head and close your eyes and let relief wash over you. It's not absolution, but it's a benediction nonetheless.

end

**Author's Note:**

> pentimento: a reappearance in a painting of a design which has been painted over (plural: pentimenti), from the Italian pentire: to repent


End file.
